


take me to the sun

by susiecarter



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Antagonism, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, M/M, Masturbation, Sexting, Texting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 05:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Just seeing "UNKNOWN NUMBER" on the display is enough to make his heart pick up sharply, these days.Tommy swallows, and then glances down at the actual text. No capslock; apparently Bubonic isn't feeling quite as much urgency this time around.you're welcome, it says.Or: five times Bubonic and Tommy texted each other, plus the time it was maybe kind of (definitely) sexting instead.





	take me to the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> I loved the idea of "texting that becomes a habit" as soon as I saw that prompt, but you had so many great ones for this pairing that a couple of the others wove their way in here, too. :D I hope you enjoy this, Sandrine, and that you've had a great Chocolate Box!
> 
> Title from the song "Parachute" by Otto Knows, because it plays in the background during 1.05 and I had it stuck in my head while I was trying to title this. Oops.

 

 

**one.**

After the party at IRL, things go pretty much back to normal.

Which means there's still a serial killer on the loose, Lindy's still in a lot more danger than Tommy's comfortable with, and Tommy's still a step behind every goddamn time something goes wrong. But Bubonic's had his fun, and though Tommy spends a week looking over his shoulder for the other shoe to drop, everything's fine. His bank statement's normal, he doesn't suddenly rack up a million unpaid parking tickets, and the appliances he's gradually restocking his apartment with don't come alive in the night and kill him.

So maybe that's it, at least for another year.

And he manages to keep thinking that right up until he stops to grab a coffee on a totally unremarkable afternoon, heading back to Cyber Crimes after taking a witness statement, and gets a text.

Just seeing "UNKNOWN NUMBER" on the display is enough to make his heart pick up sharply, these days.

He swallows, and then glances down at the actual text. No capslock; apparently Bubonic isn't feeling quite as much urgency this time around.

 _you're welcome_ , it says.

He stares at it, bewildered, and can't help coughing out a derisive little laugh. What the fuck does he have to thank _Bubonic_ for? As if.

He shouldn't reply. He knows that.

_Excuse me?_

But then he's never been particularly good at doing the smart thing.

_you still believe in good samaritans_

_how charming_

Tommy blinks, an uneasy knot tying itself in his chest. The ambulance. He'd thought—he doesn't know what he'd thought. He hadn't been thinking about much that night except the ache in his head, his face, his ribs; the club, Lindy. The bomb, once Shaw had told him about it. It hadn't occurred to him to ask who'd called it for him.

His phone vibrates again.

_one would think you'd be willing to express a little gratitude_

Tommy snorts. Yeah, gratitude. Because Bubonic had called him an ambulance, after setting him up to get the shit beaten out of him. Sure.

 _Fuck you_ , he sends.

_well that's not very nice detective calligan_

"Nice," Tommy repeats. As if Bubonic's ever been anywhere in the same area code as "nice".

He shakes his head, picks up his coffee and slides his phone into his pocket. Bubonic wants to screw with him a little, fine, but there's no reason for Tommy to make it easy for him.

He leaves the coffee shop and heads back to work. His phone doesn't buzz again, and that's fine. And if some part of him is on edge the entire rest of the day waiting for it, well—nobody knows it but him.

 

 

**two.**

Bubonic keeps texting him.

Not all the time. Not even that often. Just the occasional line, always from an unknown number. Taunts, mockery. Insults. Once, Tommy propping himself up at his desk and trying to stay awake, working late: _she didn't have to die detective calligan_ , and then nothing else, even though Tommy had spent the next half-hour staring at his phone in silence, fists clenched against the surface of his desk.

He'd almost wanted to answer that one. As if he didn't know that; as if he didn't think of it all the time, that if he'd only tried harder, paid more attention—thought to check on her even once that night—

But it was pointless. He hadn't, and he couldn't change that now. He just had to figure out how to live with it.

Anyway, it wasn't anything worth telling Sergeant Shaw about. What would be the point? There was no way they'd be able to trace the texts anywhere useful; Bubonic would have made sure of it.

And then, while he's doing Peterson a favor and looking through the files for this digital theft case she's working on, his phone buzzes.

_look at the account numbers_

Tommy stares at it. "Well, gee, thanks, I hadn't thought of that," he mutters. This is—this is probably just Bubonic trying to creep him out, letting Tommy know that _he_ knows what Tommy's working on. Which actually is pretty creepy, but Tommy's getting used to that, from Bubonic.

_look at them again_

Tommy sighs through his nose, and looks up at his computer screen. On the one hand, obviously it's incredibly stupid to do anything Bubonic tells him to do. If he hadn't known that already, he'd have learned it the night of the party, going out into that alley to find himself getting his ass kicked. On the other hand—well. It's not like he was never planning to open the file with the list of account numbers again. No real reason he shouldn't do it now.

The first clue he has is that the "last modified" date has changed. Five minutes ago, except he wasn't looking at it then and Peterson went out to grab them some Chinese from the place down the block almost ten minutes ago. Wasn't her either.

He opens it, and he's half expecting the whole thing to be wiped, or maybe replaced with a photo of that goddamn plague doctor mask Bubonic likes so much.

But instead, it's just—there's just highlighting. The last digit of each account number, that's all.

Tommy frowns, eyes skipping from one to the next. And then he stops and scrolls back to the top, and looks at them again more carefully.

They repeat.

 _Not random_ , he sends, unthinking, caught up in his own realization.

 _should have been_ , Bubonic replies, ten seconds later. And then, one right after the other:

_sloppy_

_should have used a better generator_

Tommy sits back and rubs a hand over his mouth. Because fuck—that's half the reason they've been so goddamn stuck. It's a natural enough place to go; he doesn't blame Peterson at all, for assuming these people must have had some kind of connection, something in common that had led the thief to choose them. But if the guy was just picking at random—or near-random, except whatever algorithm he'd been using to generate account numbers to hit wasn't a _true_ random number generator—

It's not exactly going to help them track him down. But at least they can quit wasting time barking up the wrong tree.

_Is that what you'd have done?_

He wishes he could take it back a second after he sends it, because like hell does Bubonic need the encouragement to decide on the optimal method of hacking a bank.

_of course not_

_every account, staggered withdrawals, random amounts_

_$10 maximum_

_who'd waste time contesting?_

Tommy feels his mouth twist before he can stop it, grimly amused. Of course. What had he been thinking, assuming Bubonic hadn't thought about it already?

_Perfect crime_

_Except for the part where you just told a cop about it_

He sets his phone down, and calmly ignores it when it buzzes again. Peterson's going to be back any minute with their food, and if profiling the victims isn't going to crack this case, then he'd better come up with a new angle she can use.

 

 

**three.**

The texts don't stop coming.

They're still annoying. Most of them wind up somewhere between snide and mocking. Bubonic's about the last person on earth Tommy would be inclined to call "helpful".

But he's also texted a couple more times about Tommy's cases. Just casually, briefly. Little asides that are totally invasive and say way too much about the kind of access Bubonic must have to the Cyber Crimes systems. But the whole unit's known he has some kind of back door since the night of the party—how else could he have cut into their security feeds from IRL with that little "happy anniversary" video for Tommy? And the fixes they've applied, the leaks they've plugged, never seem to be quite enough to keep Bubonic out.

And Tommy can admit, to himself if not to anybody else, that both times Bubonic put him on the right track.

Just toying with Tommy some more, obviously. Dangling hints in front of him and watching him race around trying to catch up. That's all it is. The fun of getting to feel smarter than Tommy must outweigh the thought that, technically speaking, he's making Tommy's life a little easier.

Tommy's aware that he's starting to get used to it. That it's starting to feel weirdly reliable, the way he can ignore Bubonic, not reply for hours or even days, and Bubonic will still show up again sooner or later.

But he's not stupid, and it shouldn't be a surprise when it all goes wrong.

The conversation starts out fine. Typical for Bubonic, a couple sardonic lines about how Tommy's bearing up—Lindy left town a couple weeks ago, and Bubonic's been pushing that angle hard, mock-solicitous, always searching for a place to hit that will hurt. Tommy's almost started to think he can't help it, in a way: that that's just what he does, the way his mind works. The same thing that makes him such a good hacker, that relentless inability to observe a weakness and not pry it apart to see how deep it goes.

 _Aw, didn't know you cared_ , Tommy sends back, jabbing at the keys a little more viciously than he needs to. He lets the phone slide out of his hand when he's done and reaches up to squeeze at the back of his neck, letting his head tip back. Jesus, when is this goddamn headache going to ease up? He's had it all day, and he keeps getting distracted by Shaw, a case, a phone call, every time he starts looking for some aspirin.

It takes almost ten minutes for Bubonic to reply, and when he does it's in a sudden rapid tumble of lines, Tommy barely done reading one before the next arrives:

_is that what you think_

_you think you matter_

_you amuse me detective calligan_

_you entertain me_

_you're a plaything_

_it took me barely half an hour and i nearly ruined your life_

_i could do it again_

_and there's nothing you could do to stop me_

_do you understand_

Tommy finds himself frowning. For all that Bubonic's throwing around words like "amuse" and "entertain" and "plaything", this doesn't have the—the spark of his usual vitriol, the incisive edge Bubonic gets when he's actually enjoying himself screwing with Tommy.

 _nothing_ , Bubonic repeats.

_nothing nothing nothing_

Tommy rubs his thumb along the edge of his phone, and bites his lip. It would be stupid to ask, but—but hell, when has that ever stopped him?

_Let's pretend I already gave you the spiel about how I'm not going to let you keep hurting people and we're going to catch you sooner or later. Is something wrong?_

He waits.

Ten minutes, again. Not out of the ordinary, Tommy tells himself, and dives determinedly back into the stack of paperwork he's been trying to make a dent in all day.

Half an hour. One hour. Two.

Tommy's phone doesn't buzz again; and after three hours he shuts it off, just so he'll stop wanting to look at it.

It doesn't work.

 

 

**four.**

Tommy hasn't heard from Bubonic in weeks.

He's been kind of pissed off about it. Pissed off about it, about everything; at Bubonic for fucking off just when Tommy was starting to get used to him, at himself for _getting_ used to him when he goddamn well knew better. He shouldn't be upset, shouldn't have let Bubonic get to him enough to trip him up like this. It's just a text, for fuck's sake.

Just a text. But Bubonic's mind games always end up taking up so much more space than they should, in Tommy's head.

It all seems kind of stupid now, Tommy thinks blearily, and tips his head back, holding his phone up in one unsteady hand to illuminate the wall of the storage container.

Yep. Still sealed.

He's tried everything he can think of, pounding on the sides and shouting till his throat ached, prying at the edges and the corners with his hands, his fingers, the steel toe of one of his boots.

No good, and he's pretty sure that this thing is airtight—that that's why he's so dizzy, why everything's started to feel sort of far away. It had occurred to him that maybe exerting himself, using up whatever air he had left, wasn't the best idea, and by that point his fingers had started bleeding anyway.

His phone's still working, which is good. But whoever paid to have him hit over the head and dumped in here, they weren't screwing around; they'd scrambled the cell tracking somehow and it had taken Shaw about twice as long as it should have to get a location for him. Her last text said they had the address, that they were on their way.

But Tommy's kind of starting to think they're not going to be fast enough.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he almost drops it. Shaw again, he thinks, tilting it toward him and squinting, but it doesn't say "Sgt Shaw" across the top.

It says "UNKNOWN NUMBER".

He blinks at it, and then belatedly remembers to actually read the text.

_hang on_

"What?" Tommy says aloud, hoarse.

Another buzz. _don't go anywhere detective calligan_

_under the circumstances i realize that constitutes a punchline_

_and in very poor taste too_

Tommy finds himself laughing, thin sharp barks of it scraping their way out of his dry throat.

_are you listening_

Tommy peers down at the keys, but they're all sliding away from him, blurring, squeezing into each other. He settles for just running his fingers across them, a row of letters, and sending that instead.

It's enough, though; he knew it would be.

 _good_ , Bubonic says.

_i'm not done with you yet_

Tommy's about to give him another jumble of letters—serves him right—except he's pretty sure he's just started hallucinating. Because he's hearing a noise, somewhere.

It's barely anything. Echoes, a distant muddle of sounds without any meaning. Voices.

Wait. Voices?

And then it isn't just voices but words. People saying his name, sharp orders traded back and forth, a creak and a clang and a groan of metal—

The end of the storage container comes away, and for a second Tommy's body can't decide what it wants to do more: flinch away from the sudden flood of light, or throw itself at all that sweet, sweet fresh air.

"Tommy," Shaw says, gripping him by the shoulders, and then Yeager's there, too, and they ease him out onto the floor. "Get a bus here _now_ ," Shaw shouts at somebody else, and then she's leaning over him again, touching his face with steady hands as if she can help him breathe.

Because he is, he's breathing, sucking down huge gasping lungfuls of air, and god, that feels good.

"What happened?" he manages, blinking up at her.

"We're in a private storage unit," she says. "No windows, good security, digital lock. We were trying to get in touch with someone at the company with the combination, and there's a police contractor on the way with a blowtorch to cut through the door." She stops.

Tommy squints up at her. "But?"

Shaw looks at him. "But," she says evenly, "when we arrived on site, we all received the same text." She pulls out her phone and flashes it at him. "Eight digits. It was the combination."

"From the company," Tommy says, trying to follow where she's headed with this.

Shaw's mouth flattens. "From an unknown number," she admits.

And Tommy lets his head drop back against the floor and grins up at the ceiling, because of course. "You smug creepy son of a bitch," he tells the ceiling, and then finally lets himself pass out.

 

 

**five.**

Tommy picks up his phone.

He turns it over in his hands, once and then again. He sets it down.

He hates second-guessing himself. He's not good at it; hasn't practiced much, he thinks wryly.

If he's going to do this, then he'd better just—do it. Get it over with, out of the way, and then it'll be done and he'll never have to think about it again.

Right.

He picks up his phone, flips to the right conversation. He ends up looking down at the screen like that for a minute, just reading it again: _i'm not done with you yet_. There's something almost arrogant about it, pure Bubonic. But—

But right then, locked in that container, thinking he might die, it had been exactly what Tommy needed to hear. Because if Bubonic was arrogant, he'd earned it; he could do things no one else could do. And no one else could have gotten Tommy out of there alive.

So in the end, it's easier than he expects it to be to type it in:

_Thanks._

He watches it send, and then laughs a little. Funny, in a way. That's how this whole thing started—Bubonic needling him for a thank-you over the ambulance, and not getting one.

He thinks about it for a second, and then, grinning, adds, _Wouldn't want you to think I'm not willing to express a little gratitude_

He makes himself set the phone down after that, runs a hand through his hair and turns back to his computer. Sometimes it takes a little while for Bubonic to answer, and—and Tommy's never been the one texting him first, until now. He might not even be paying attention—

Tommy's phone buzzes.

He reaches for it and tilts it up.

_how considerate of you detective calligan_

Tommy rolls his eyes, but he can feel the corner of his mouth trying to tug itself up without permission.

But he shouldn't let Bubonic turn this whole thing into a joke. He meant it. Bubonic—Bubonic kind of sort of saved his life, even if it was only because he's not done tormenting Tommy quite yet. Looking after his favorite toy; but it still counts for something, at least to Tommy.

 _I mean it_ , he sends. _I could've died in there. You didn't have to help me, but you did. Thank you._

 _we have so many more anniversaries ahead of us_ , Bubonic says, after a moment. _i wouldn't have wanted you to miss out on all my plans for you_

 _I figured_ , Tommy tells him, and okay, that's enough of that; he's pretty sure he got his point across, and being all— _sincere_ at Bubonic isn't something he's equipped to do for more than about thirty seconds at a time. _How sweet of you to keep an eye on me._

His phone is quiet again for a long moment.

_don't give me too much credit detective calligan_

_after all it's a very nice view_

Tommy stares down at the screen, stark clean sans serif spelling out words he definitely didn't misread, feeling suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the pulse beating at the base of his throat. What the fuck? Bubonic can't possibly have meant that the way it sounds.

Just ignore it, he tells himself. Turn the phone off. Forget about it.

 _Is that the best line you've got?_ he watches himself type, and he's half-convinced he's going to delete it unsent right up until it's too late.

Bubonic is quiet, for thirty seconds that feel like an eternity.

_the angry boyfriend was right_

_you do have a pretty face_

"Calligan!"

Tommy jerks in his chair, phone skittering from his shock-loosened grip before he manages to snatch it up again. Yeager's gesturing to him—must've caught a break on a case, or dug up something he wants Tommy to look at. That's all.

"Just a second," Tommy calls back, and types in _You are so full of shit_ , sends it, before jamming his phone resolutely into his pocket. Because jesus, that's a whole new level of screwy—but then again Bubonic's never known how to do anything but escalate.

And Tommy needs to get his head on straight before he can start wondering exactly where Bubonic's planning to escalate _to_.

 

 

**and one.**

Tommy comes awake gradually, reluctantly. At first he just knows he's warm and prone and kind of disoriented. And then something vibrates somewhere near him, and he surfaces a little further, groans low in his throat and rolls over and flops a hand out from under his sheets to feel around on the end table.

Another buzz. Definitely his phone.

He fumbles up with his other hand to rub at his face, his eyes, and does find his phone after all, twisting it around clumsily and almost dropping it twice, trying to get the screen in focus for the one eye he's grudgingly cracked open.

He's supposed to be off this whole weekend; not in the office, not on-call, nothing. But if Sergeant Shaw's trying to get in touch with him anyway, then it's going to be a genuine emergency, and that means he'd better answer.

Except when he squints up at the dim screen, it's not Shaw at all.

_you should be more than capable of breaking this encryption_

_would you like a hint detective calligan_

Tommy groans again, louder, and squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. Bubonic.

He's talking about the laptop they seized the other day, the files they still can't get into. Does he honestly think Tommy's still at work, at—Tommy belatedly looks up at the corner of the screen. 2:32 in the morning, Jesus Christ.

He weighs the odds that Bubonic will fuck off if he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. He's pretty sure they're not on his side.

 _fcuk off its 2am_ , he manages, bleary-eyed and one-handed.

_crime never sleeps_

_I DO_ , Tommy sends, emphatic.

A pause. Tommy turns his face into his pillow, letting his eyes fall shut again the way they want to. He could just shut the phone off, toss it on the floor somewhere and go back to sleep—

It vibrates in his hand.

_did i wake you detective calligan_

Tommy wonders dimly what kind of twisted satisfaction Bubonic gets out of his title, his last name; he's so consistent about it, so precise, spelling it all out exactly right every time. Tommy can practically hear him saying it, straight out of the video: _happy anniversary, Detective Calligan_.

But—had he called Tommy by his first name once? Tommy frowns up at the ceiling. He almost thinks so, though he can't quite decide when it happened.

_dreaming of me detective calligan_

Tommy blinks at the screen and then huffs out an irritated breath, ignoring the jerk of his heart and the way it suddenly feels a little too hot in here. More goddamn teasing, that's all.

 _If you ask what Im weraing Im throwing my phone out the window_ , Tommy sends, almost up to his usual standard now that he's pried both eyes open.

_i don't need to_

Tommy stares at his phone and has to swallow twice, throat inexplicably dry. He glances up automatically at the top of the phone, flips it to check the other side, but no, the camera's off.

_i know everything about you_

_not that hard to guess_

_tshirt and boxers_

Tommy tosses a self-conscious glance at the dim huddled shape of a t-shirt on the floor—the one he'd had on when he went to bed, and yeah, if he prods his brain enough he can come up with a fuzzy memory of coming half-awake long enough to peel it off. An hour ago, maybe two.

The boxers, he still has on.

But _technically_ , Bubonic is wrong. And Tommy's hardly going to waste the opportunity to tell him so.

 _Close_ , he concedes, because he can afford to be magnanimous in victory. _Partial credit._

There's a pause. It stretches; ten seconds, fifteen, thirty. More than long enough for Tommy to become uncomfortably conscious of the pound of his heart, the way his breath's picked up. He woke up—not hard, not actually, but a little stiff, and suddenly he's way too aware that he's also alone in his bed at nearly three in the morning with a dick that's waking up along with him, clutching his phone and trying not to pant too hard over _Bubonic_.

_i have another guess detective calligan_

_are you ready_

Tommy digs his teeth into his lip. This is such a bad idea. He doesn't have to answer. He could—he could just set the phone down right now. Get up, go to the bathroom, splash some water on his face. Take Boris out around the block, as long as he's up. He could—

_you're hard_

Jesus. Tommy automatically reaches down to press the heel of his hand against himself, breath catching in his throat at the sensation, hips shifting. And fuck, after that it's—he could have lied to himself, told himself it had nothing to do with Bubonic or his weird bullshit, if only he hadn't done that. If only he hadn't sat here staring at Bubonic's texts and feeling his dick, hot and heavy against his thigh, the thickening line of it beneath his palm.

Shit.

_i'm waiting for my grade detective calligan_

_or will there be a make-up test later_

Tommy goes still, indecisive. It's one thing to acknowledge to himself that somehow, inexplicably, he's hot for this. But to acknowledge it to Bubonic—

_full credit is that it_

_tell me i'm wrong_

Tommy swallows hard, and then deliberately moves his thumb away from the keys. He doesn't have to do anything. And Bubonic will take that however he wants to take it; Tommy's not responsible.

_and are you planning to do anything about it_

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what he'd _like_ to do about it, and fuck, there's something frighteningly hot all by itself about the idea of doing it with Bubonic out there somewhere knowing about it.

The phone buzzes in his hand, and he can't talk himself out of looking at it.

_do you like to finger yourself detective calligan_

Oh, fuck, fuck, how could he possibly know—Tommy tenses with apprehension, with the jolt of heat that rockets through him at that thought, and one of his hands is still against his dick; he has to gasp, shift his hips, and his boxers are already damper than they ought to be, sticking to his fingers a little.

_i bet you do_

_i bet you love it_

"Jesus fucking Christ," Tommy says aloud, and he's not kidding anybody anymore, not even himself. He sucks in a breath and kicks the sheets off himself, spreads his thighs apart and shoves his hand _into_ his boxers instead of just outside of them, giving himself one good firm stroke.

God, he can't believe he's doing this.

_what are you waiting for_

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, rubs his thumb over the trapped leaking head of his dick once, twice, and then slides it down, nudges past his balls and dips just the tip of his thumb inside himself. And jesus, fuck, he's already so worked up he reflexively rolls his hips into the touch and almost dislodges his hand, choking out a soft sound and trying to force himself to hold still.

_deeper_

_come on_

He can't let go of the phone. He has to use the same hand for everything, squeezing his cock until he gasps and then grudgingly swapping angles to get to his ass, stretching the material of his boxers obscenely tight.

And he's in no mood to wait; he shoves the first finger deep right away, right down to the third knuckle, arching his back, chasing the ache instead of shying away from it.

The phone buzzes in his hand. _slower_

"Oh, fuck you," Tommy tells the ceiling, panting. "Come _on_."

But he does it. He eases off a little, two knuckles and then one, two again, teasing himself around the rim with his thumb; and he's not sure whether it's the anticipation or the sexting or motherfucking Bubonic, but he doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his _life_.

Bubonic, it turns out, likes slow. He likes to toy with Tommy this way, too: making him groan and shudder and spread his thighs wide, count to ten, twenty, thirty before he gets to put another finger in, or pull them out and touch himself, or _anything_. Over and over and over, until he's panting and cursing, dick aching nearly as much as his ass is, everything hot and sore and straining, almost too much to stand.

Bubonic's instructions are precise, perfectly timed; there's never too many at once, never anything Tommy can't do, and he always seems to remember how Tommy's positioned, where his hand is, what he's doing.

In retrospect, Tommy should have known.

But as it is, he shakes his way through an achingly long orgasm, clenching tight around his own fingers and jerking frantically against the mattress, without realizing what's going on. It isn't until he manages to open his eyes again, face tipped exhaustedly sideways, that he sees the light.

He checked his phone's camera, yeah. But that's not the only camera in here. His whole room's dark, except for the glow coming off the screen in his hand—and the tiny red pinhole of light coming from all the way over on his desk. His laptop. He didn't close the top earlier; and the webcam's running.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he slurs against his pillow, staring blankly over at it. How much could Bubonic possibly have gotten, with the lighting as dim as this?

His phone buzzes.

 _a very nice view_ , it says.

Tommy blinks, and has to bite down on the totally inappropriate laugh trying to bust its way out of his throat. That should be creepy as fuck. It _is_ creepy as fuck; it's just that it sends a prickling wave of heat through his whole body, too.

And it's not like he didn't know what he was getting into, doing shit like this with Bubonic.

"You're a psycho," he tells that little red light, and gives it the finger.

_that's not very polite detective calligan_

"You told me how I should jerk myself off and watched me do it," Tommy says. "I've got a first name."

He glances at his phone, and—he's in this up to his eyeballs anyway. Like hell is he going to back down, back off.

Bubonic doesn't know how to do anything but escalate; but Tommy's not exactly in a position to throw stones, either. He twists his hips, rolls onto his side, and finally tugs the damn boxers off. If Bubonic wants a view, he can have one.

His phone's quiet.

But he doesn't mind, he decides. Even if that's it for tonight, he's got a feeling Bubonic will be back.

 

 


End file.
